


The King in the North

by voices_not_echoes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family Feels, Jonsa Secret Santa 2018, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 04:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voices_not_echoes/pseuds/voices_not_echoes
Summary: As Lady Mormont gives her speech after the Battle of the Bastards, an interruption by two uninvited guests changes everything. Mix of book and show canon.





	The King in the North

Sansa sat at the head table, her eyes scanning the assembled Northern lords. She could not help but be proud of this, of the result her efforts had borne. She was home at last. Not in that burned out shell of a castle she had occupied as Ramsay Bolton's wife but a Stark Winterfell, the Winterfell of her childhood. Its image was the basis of her rebuilding, an image which still shone clear as day. Sansa and Jon had reclaimed Winterfell, Jon leading the vanguard in a battle the singers would write about. The North was ready to defend itself from the greater threat of the Others, and all the lords who had stood for Bolton or for nothing bent the knee now. Even so, there was more to be done.

The lords debated amongst themselves restlessly in response to Jon’s assertion of the threat beyond the Wall. The desire not to believe him was strong, she understood that. Men were skeptical and unwilling to accept what they could not see with their own eyes. She understood that too. But though Sansa had never seen this threat, Jon said it was real. Jon said they were there. Their experiences on the warpath had taught her that her brother was honorable and true. If Jon said he would protect her, he would. If Jon said they could take their home back, they could. If Jon said the Others marched, they did. There would be no debate on that. While the lords kept up their grumbling, Sansa looked up at him, studiously avoiding eye contact with Baelish, and saw Jon looking at young Lyanna Mormont. Her little mouth was curled in a fierce scowl, and as she listened to some comment Sansa could not hear, the lady stood up.

“Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly,” she said, cool and clear. “But you refused the call.” The old fat lord did not bow his head, though the words should have caused him shame. Either he was prouder than Sansa knew, or he felt no shame at his betrayal. Curious.

“You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover. But in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call.” Jon looked pensive, but Sansa could barely restrain her smile. If Lyanna were a Stark, Father would have said she had the wolf blood, just like her namesake. As it were, she was as fierce as her mother and sisters, and as fierce as the bear of her house.

“And you, Lord Cerwyn.” The young lord seemed surprised his name was called. “Your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still, you refused the call.” Lord Cerwyn bowed his head and turned from the center, tears in his eyes. Sansa frowned slightly. She had lost a father too recently to not feel for the boy. Lady Lyanna paused, all the assembled lords’s eyes on her. They wanted to know what she would say next. Though she was more cautious of the little lady now, Sansa did too.

“But House Mormont remembers,” she cried, louder than anything she had said before. She twisted her head in circles, so that the whole hall could hear her as she spoke. “The North remembers! We know no king, but the king in the North whose name is Stark.” Whose name is Stark. Sansa stood still, afraid to breathe. Does she mean...? The door slammed open.

“I reckon you’re right,” said the man in the doorway, bald and bearded with a young boy by his side. The northern lords and warriors drew their swords, pointing them in the intruders direction. Threat! screamed Sansa's instincts. In Ramsay’s Winterfell, surprises were always threats.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked, trying to maintain her sense of calm, the tension rising everywhere in the room except for Lord Manderly. At the same instant, Jon said, “Davos?” She turned to her brother, leaning closer in an effort to be discreet.  
“You know this man?” she asked quietly. Jon nodded his assent, distracted, with his eyes still locked on Davos.

“He was Hand of the King to Stannis. But I do not know what he could be doing here, nor what he means, nor who his companion is.” Stannis Baratheon? The man who had claimed he was the true king of the Seven Kingdoms was dead now. If Joffrey had been king still, she might have felt some sadness. As it was, she felt nothing at all, except for a deep curiosity. Sansa looked at the man across from her and the young boy who stayed hidden behind him. What are you hiding?

“We welcome you Lord Davos, but we must ask. What is your business here?” Davos cleared his throat and turned towards the boy behind him, whispering in his ear. Even from her high seat, Sansa could see the little one cringe and shake his head, and her heart went out to him. At the rejection, Lord Davos stood up tall and held his head high, his voice clear and true.

“You say that your king is a Stark. Before the Boltons killed my own king, Stannis, I would have said you should take him as yours.” There was angry muttering throughout the crowd. “But,” Davos continued, his voice raised, “but, His Grace is dead.”

"Speak your mind, man, or go!" Ser Harry cried, as arrogant as ever. Lord Manderly stood then, and shook his fist so that his skin rippled. "Be quiet, Valeman! You do not know what you speak of." Lord Davos nodded his head to the fat lord, in respect, in greeting. Did they know each other? How? And why?

“Instead," Davos began again, "at the urging of Lord Manderly, I bring you your own liege lord, your rightful king.” Davos stepped to the side, revealing the boy he had brought with him. "Rickon Stark!"

Sansa was frozen. Impossible, she wanted to say. All my brothers are dead. She looked at the boy now, looked at his wild red curls and his bright blue eyes, the way he was tall and growing taller, gangly like Robb had been.

“Rickon?” she breathed, and he smiled. The tears grew in her eyes, all the sadness of the past years coming forward again in unbridled, perfect joy.

“Wait a minute, my lady,” said Baelish. “What proof have we of this man’s claim? Who can say if this is your brother at all?” The words were like a buzzing in her ears, like wind in the mountains.

“I can,” she said, already out of her chair and traveling towards her brother, Jon along side her. She kneeled in front of her brother, her hands wandering towards his face but unable to touch it, still afraid that she would wake up and find he was dead. If this is a dream,she prayed, may I never awaken.

“Do you remember us, Rickon?” Jon asked, standing behind her. It was strange that he was not by her side, and even more puzzling when she looked up at him and saw the hesitance on his face. There were more of them now, all her family, so why… oh. She recalled the thought she had had once in the Vale, that with all her trueborn brothers dead, it would be sweet to see Jon. He had always been least in her thoughts, least in her family. But that now that she knew him, now that she loved him, she could not have rejected him, not even if he was not her brother at all. Sansa tugged at his cloak. He smiled down at her, but did not move. She tugged again, more insistently this time, and he kneeled beside her. She was ready to give some remark on her triumph, to ease his mind, but then Rickon's smile distracted her. My baby brother, home at last.

Rickon’s little arms reached towards her with such surety, his smile wide across his face. “Mother!” he cried. “Mother!” Her heart plummeted in her chest. She knew that she looked like her mother, but to have Rickon remember her so little…

"Father!" he called out this time, pulling Jon towards them both. He pulled their hair a little with his grip, but that was not what was about to make her sob.

“I am not your mother, sweetling. I am your sister Sansa, and this is your brother Jon.” Rickon nuzzled closer, uncaring. Perhaps he did not understand, or perhaps he was so joyous that it did not matter to him. But when she looked at Jon, she saw her own sadness etched across his face. Lord Baelish had called her Cat, sometimes. And there was no doubt that Jon was his father’s son, every inch a Stark. She could understand if some ignorant smallfolk who had only seen them once had made the mistake, but their own son? It was too much for Sansa, too much even for Jon. They were not yet large enough to fill her parents' shoes. She needed them. She needed them still. Mother, her soul cried, with a voice as young as Rickon’s. Father.

Sansa stood abruptly, unable to bear the scrutiny as she dealt with the pit in her stomach. "My brothers and I must speak urgently now, my lords." Lord Manderly began to speak, but Sansa held up a hand. "We will recess, and then reconvene in two hours." She lifted Rickon up from the floor, supporting herself on Jon's arm. Then she turned and swept them out of the room, not letting up the pace until they were in her solar.

Rickon down in front of the fireplace, in the manner of a child who is not used to being warm, and Sansa's knees gave out from under her as she embraced him, kissing the top of his head. Jon kneeled beside them without hesitation this time, but only laid his hand on her back.

“What should we do now?” he asked. She turned her face so that it was only half buried in Rickon’s curls.

“What should we do about what?” A nagging feeling had been buzzing in her chest, as if there was some business left unfinished, but she had been able to ignore it while she held her brother in her arms with Jon’s comforting presence surrounding them. Then Jon drew his hand from her back, using the hand to ruffle Rickon’s hair.

“They were about to crown you, Sansa, make you Queen in the North. Though it is Rickon’s by birthright, you should rule it until he comes of age.” She pulled back slightly from Rickon to look at Jon as he stood, to see if he was serious. He was. As she removed herself from Rickon though, the last of her comfort was gone. The nagging feeling revealed its source and she gasped softly.

“They were about to crown a new King in the North, Jon." It hurt to think about "You.” His eyes widened in surprise, and some other emotion she could not place. Some combination of relief and longing and guilt. “Lady Mormont was not considering birthright in her plans.”

He paced back and forth, glancing at her continuously as if to make sure she had not yet rejected him for the lords’ apparent preference. She had not. She could not. Had it not been her who claimed he was a Stark, before any other?

“She will change her mind now, won’t she? There is a trueborn Stark male heir, they’ll have no need of me.” Sansa sighed. Jon always underestimated how much loyalty and admiration he commanded. It was one of the things she admired him for.

“They don’t want the trueborn Stark heir Jon. They want you, who looks like Father, who took back Winterfell, who has fought the Others and won.” The other words passed unspoken between them. They were willing to pass over me to have you. Who says they will not pass over Rickon?

Jon shook his head in frustration, a few of his curls falling out of the pulled back hairstyle he had worn since she had first come to him at the Wall. He looked like Father with that style. On him, she preferred it down.

“Rickon is the heir, just as you were. I will not usurp you both. He should be our lord, and you his regent until he comes of age.” Sansa shook away the distracting urge to reach out and touch Jon’s curls. To pull them, she specified, so that he would see sense.

“I cannot rule Jon, not while you are here.” There was too much suspicion around her, with her two southron marriages. There were too many schemers around her too.

I cannot rule while Littlefinger is here, was her true reasoning. She never knew when he was listening, where his spies lay in wait. He was the reason she could not rule, for her distrust of him and her knowledge of his skill with manipulation would make her too paranoid, seeing his shadow in every corner. His control over her, the debt she owed him, was too great. Jon continued pacing, his breaths coming up slightly shallower.

“I cannot rule, Sansa. At the Wall…” He trailed off, and she rose from her seat to stand beside him, to comfort him. She wanted to shake herself. Of course Jon was hesitant to rule, to oversee other men. The last time he had been in charge, as Lord Commander, his own brothers had killed him. He had told her once, as they lay on their cots, that they had come for him as he tried to resolve some crisis, to protect them, flashing steel in the light of day. The image had made her cry, but she had kept her tears silent, so that he would not think she was pitying him.

She had expected it to be easier once they came home. On their journey to taking back Winterfell, Jon had provided all their military strategy, Sansa her knowledge of the Northern houses and the politics which guided them. They had been a good team on the road, but now, when they had finally accomplished what they came to, it was all falling apart. Sansa glanced over at Rickon, who had called them Mother and Father, and who was now looking at the desk, hiding underneath it in the way he always had when they played hide and go seek.

Then it came to her, the answer so obvious that she laughed out loud. Jon turned to her, close to frowning at her mirth.

“I cannot rule by myself,” she said, “and you cannot rule by yourself, and Rickon cannot rule by law.” Jon sighed and looked to the ceiling.

"That is a good summary of our problem, yes. Do you have a solution?" She grabbed his arm and tugged one of his curls, still laughing.

“We shall rule together,” she said. “Regents, together, until Rickon comes of age.” Jon laughed with her then and hugged her tightly. They rocked back and forth like that for a few moments until he stopped laughing, and touched his forehead to hers

“You are more clever than me by half,” he said, then glanced towards the other side of the room. “Now, let’s go get Rickon.”

Rickon had been wandering through the solar in the Lord’s Chamber, touching the walls, the chair, the stone shelves carved into the walls. When Ramsay had sacked Winterfell, when he had burned Winterfell, there had been some rooms which survived the fires, rooms the Boltons built their new Winterfell around. Even that which remained was different, strange. The desk was there true, and since they had taken back the castle Stark banners adorned the walls once more. Papers lay scattered over the desk and books lay in the shelves. There was very little different in this room, physically. But when she looked around it, she could not help but feel empty. This room was full of Stark things, it was true, but the Starks who should have been here were gone. All but the three of them.

“It’s different,” said Rickon.

"It is." This was a Bolton Winterfell, a new Winterfell. It was not quite home yet. But they would make it one. If it took everything she had, Winterfell would be her home once more. She glanced at Jon, and took his hand in hers, then offered the other to her brother.

"Are we ready?" she asked. Rickon nodded. Jon did the same. Sansa straightened her back and opened the door, heading back to the vultures.

All three of them swept into the Great Hall, the lords still assembled, and fighting about their next action.

“Lady Sansa should rule in her brother’s stead!” cried Ser Harrold Hardyng, his plethora of yes-men nodding their approval. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Should I marry you then, Ser Harry? And pass my cousin over? She moved past him.

“Lord Rickon should rule, with our Northern lords serving as a council of regents,” said Lord Manderly. Sansa was not sure what part Lord Manderly had in her brother's return, but she knew he had done something. Instead of a mermaid, she smelled a fish. She passed him by.

“Jon Snow!” cried Lady Lyanna, many men looking at her as if her youth and brashness made her wise. Sansa felt a slight resentment at Jon, to know that had Rickon not arrived, it would have been him who wore the crown. She brushed the feeling away as she passed the little Lady. It was not Jon who did it. And it doesn’t matter anyway, for Rickon is here.

“Silence!” Sansa called. The lords were quieted, but still grumbling. As it should be. They might not love her yet, but they knew her and, so far, she was not the kind of ruler whose lords were so terrified of her they would not speak in her presence.

Jon and Rickon and Sansa herself stood on the dais, and all the lords finally fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut the air as they waited for the Stark siblings to sit. Rickon sat in the lord’s chair that would have served as Robb’s throne, Sansa to his right and Jon to his left.

“All hail Rickon!’ Sansa cried out. “King in the North!” Jon drew his sword and thrust it into the air, and suddenly the hall was filled with the swish of swords from scabbards. Rickon looked out at them, so young he did not seem to know what it meant.

“All hail Jon Snow!” "Sansa continued. "Lord Regent to the King in the North." Eyes met from across the room, in horror and outrage for some factions, in happiness and pride for others. Before an uproar could begin Jon spoke, clear as day.

"All hail Sansa Stark!" Jon called out. "Lady of Winterfell, and Lady Regent to the King in the North!" Sansa's head whipped towards Jon, half-surprise and half-gratefulness. He had seen a way for Rickon to get his birthright without depriving Sansa of the home she had fought for for so long. I love you, she thought as she looked at him. Because, of course, he was the oldest and truest of the brothers who remained to her.

Scanning the hall, Sansa could see frustrations coming from every corner. She could see the plots beginning formation before her eyes, and yet she did not care. She stood in Winterfell, Sansa Stark once more. Rickon was alive, and now that succession was settled, they could find Bran. Everything was as it should be.

The traces of Bolton madness might still lie on the walls, but Sansa stood with her brother and Jon at her side, and she knew she was home.


End file.
